I was ten years old when my initiation into a life of crime began. I didn’t look for it; one might say it found me.
Back in elementary school my parents designated the large bookstore located across the street as our pick-up point on days when I’d miss the bus. I’d cross the footbridge, enter the air-conditioned space, and park myself and my bag on the floor in front of the young adults’ section. If I got hungry, I’d walk to the fast food place in the adjacent building and spend my day’s allowance on a burger and a drink.
One afternoon I found myself in the art section and was mesmerized. In front of me stood shelves with sheets of paper in every print and color, vibrant colored markers and pencils in every shade, and–to my utter delight–the most beautiful erasers I had ever seen. I wanted one. Nevermind that I had no use for it.
So without giving it much thought I picked one up, examined it, inhaled it–it was an artist’s eraser that you cold mold like putty–and then quickly dropped it in my school uniform’s breast pocket, right under my Catholic school’s emblem that symbolized honor, generosity, and service to God.
I’m sure God appreciated the beauty of that particular eraser, I reasoned to myself. And I walked out to my waiting parents, school bag in tow, as the late afternoon sun bathed me in an amber glow–like the apostles, I imagined, as the Holy Spirit descended upon them showering them with wisdom. Except mine was guilt.
But the feeling would quickly pass and the act would soon become a hobby of mine several times a month. At the end of which I’d have a pile of erasers at the bottom of my bag. I barely used them, but together with my pencil case, I loved showing them off to my classmates.
* * *
There are many reasons, people say, why a child would steal: a lack of understanding on the value of property, no self-control, peer pressure, a call for attention, or just plain hardship. While my eraser stint was probably born out of a longing to look cool, I soon found out that I was simply cheap.
And I confirmed this one weekend in high school, when I found myself roaming the department store of a run-down commercial complex located near our house.
For the purposes of this story, it was called The Grand Mall. But its name belied its true identity. You could tell it was a relic of the early 90s because it still had an underwhelming murky fountain as its centerpiece. The seats in the cinema were creaking tetanus hazards. And deep in the basement was a horribly-lit tiled food court that smelled of used cooking oil and feet.
I had brought enough money for a movie and a snack, but decided at the last minute to not to go get a ticket because the only interesting film showing starred Nicolas Cage. So I began to roam their half-decent department store in the hopes of finding something interesting.
In the music section, I found two CDs I wanted to get. As I didn’t bring enough money to get both, I decided with the same nonchalance as when I swiped those erasers to buy one CD and slip the other one into my shopping bag.
It was a good plan. I thought I already mastered the move from my years of eraser swiping. However, it turns out, compact disks are bigger than erasers.
The CD in question didn’t even come from a notable artist. It was, as I recall, simply a compilation of the popular tracks of the time which included, but were not limited to–and I recall this with some chagrin–Mandy Moore, Brandy, and Westlife.
As I prepared to walk out of the department store with both my legit and illegitimate loot, a man dressed in civilian clothes came out of nowhere and blocked my way.
“Sir, can I see your bag, please.” he said. It was then that I knew I had been caught.
There’s a feeling that you may be familiar with that usually hits you in that split second after stepping out of a cab, when you begin to pat your pockets and realize you left your wallet in the backseat. Or the lightning light-headedness that washes over you when, after walking through a crowded area, you realize your phone has gone missing.
In that moment, surrounded by busy shoppers, I could feel the blood from my face rush to my ears and my head begin to spin. I was cold but sweaty, stiff but like jelly. I wanted to throw up, beg for mercy, and run away. But I couldn’t.
The guy had a stern look, he wasn’t going to let me go. And for a split second I actually contemplated making a run for it, but my legs refused to cooperate. Could use that Holy Spirit now, God.
The guy took my bag and asked me to follow him down to security. He was unusually calm. He didn’t grip my wrist or follow me from behind; he walked in front of me and occasionally glanced back to check if I was still there.
And as we went down several floors and passed through the racks of merchandise and shoppers who had no idea that there was a 16-year-old felon in their midst, the only thought running through my head was “What do I tell mom?”
We reached the employee entrance on the ground floor, stopped at a security guard who frisked me, and then walked by a row of rusty metal lockers where a few salesladies were busy preparing for their shift with thick applications of blush and cheap lipstick. Some glanced at me as they bent down trying to straighten their flesh-colored stockings.
I could tell from the look in their heavily shadowed eyes that they knew what I was, and they knew what I had done. I probably wasn’t the first person to do this perp walk before–or the youngest, judging by their indifference.
The air grew thick as we continued through several dingy hallways with peeling paint on the walls and unflattering fluorescent lighting. As this point my ears were ringing and my sweaty palms were ice cold. I was descending through the levels of hell. And I was about to meet the devil who would give me the punishment I deserved for attempting to steal a Mandy Moore CD.
Finally, we reached a small shoebox of an office where another man was sitting behind a dilapidated desk. The air was musty, and on the wall beside him hung a calendar with a photo of a local B-list celebrity in a string bikini with a brandy bottle to her lips. I wonder what her mom thinks of that, I thought.
“This one stole something,” grunted the undercover security guy to the one behind the desk.
He signed me off and left. And then the man behind the desk proceeded to sift through my things to determine which items were mine and which ones were stolen.
All through l this I was still trying to think of a way I could explain this to my mom. “I’m not a criminal, Ma. I’m just cheap.”
Familiar with the practice of establishments posting photos of shoplifters as a warning to other people with sticky fingers, I readied myself to be fingerprinted and to stand for my mug shot. But they didn’t do any of those things.
First they asked for my name and how old I was, saying that if I were a minor, they would need to call my parents to pick me up. So I said I was eighteen and had just graduated high school.
They asked me why I did it. I had no reply because in my head, saying I didn’t want to pay for a mix CD didn’t sound as convincing.
The company policy, according to them, is that I now had to pay for the item I stole, but at ten times the original retail price. I certainly didn’t have that much money on me. However, I did have a significant amount in my savings wallet stashed at home which was half an hour away.
So I asked the musty man if I could call my brother at home and ask him to bring the money to the security office. He agreed and pointed me to a phone located on the desk manned by a lady security guard. She rolled her eyes as she handed me the landline.
Now I found myself in the difficult situation of having to explain to my brother why I was in a security office asking for money. The truth was out of the question.
My story to him was simple: I was out shopping for supplies for my school theater club and I, being the absent-minded teen that I was, forgot to bring the money.
I told him where to get my wallet and instructed him to meet me at the security office—because that’s how bulk transactions were made, not at a cashier with an official receipt. This, to me, made sense. And apparently, to him, as well.
I waited by the lady guard and half an hour later my older brother arrived with the wallet. If he ever found out the truth, I’ll never know. He was more irritated at having to leave the house for my stupid mistake. He left after a lot of thanks from me. And I’ve never brought the incident up with him again.
I counted the cash, handed the amount to the guy behind the desk, signed my name in a log book, and stepped out of the mall into what seemed to be the freshest air I had ever breathed. Thinking about it now, more than a decade later, I probably should’ve asked for a receipt. But I just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.
And I swore to never return to The Grand Mall again.
* * *
Four years later in college, I had to take a theology class in my junior year. One of the requirements for the course was a program that required us all to briefly work with a marginalized community or perform some sort of manual labor. They called it “a labor exposure program.” This was, obviously, a private Catholic university. And it wasn’t unknown to us that it was probably exploitation. But I needed the grade.
The purpose of the exercise is to immerse students in the plight of the working class and identify the issues that plague them—even if it was just for 12 hours spread over the span of three weeks.
Each assignment was randomly selected by the instructor, and the options were varied but all similar in difficulty: a janitor at the local mall, a dispatcher at a transport terminal, a volunteer in an orphanage, and other jobs.
When the day came to reveal where each of us would spend our next three weekends, everyone anticipated the worst. I knew of some people who had to stand by the side of the road and sell corn to passing cars or mop public bathrooms. And I was giddy with anticipation not at my own assignment, but for the reaction of the few privileged people in my class who, judging by their English twang and driver waiting in the parking lot, have obviously never swept a floor or held a rag before. And in some small way, I empathized with them.
My assignment: department store sales attendant. I gave a sigh of relief. Air conditioned, no chance of being stabbed or mugged in a dark alley, or touching other people’s garbage.
“Which department store?” I asked, knowing they always chose places that were nearby.
The Grand Mall.
Photo by Jason Rost on Unsplash